


the gentleness that comes not from the absence of violence (but despite the abundance of it)

by voxofthevoid



Series: the hero's shoulders [6]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aphrodisiacs, Consent Play, Dominance and Submission, M/M, Marathon Sex, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:34:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26498701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxofthevoid/pseuds/voxofthevoid
Summary: Steve has a way of swallowing the space around him, sucking in the air and light. Bucky can sympathize, all too familiar with the overwhelming heat of that body, stripping him to his bare essentials and laying it all in Steve’s greedy hands. There are worse ways to live and worse ways to die, and Bucky’s doing a little of both, each and every day.But Steve looks as young as the day Bucky met him, while Bucky—who lost a whole five years of his life, five years that Steve lived—has laugh lines around his mouth and a grey hair or ten. He’s nowhere near death, but even with the lost years, he’s closer to forty than thirty, and he has the feeling that in maybe three more decades, Steve will look like his son and not his lover.Bucky almost speaks, voices it out loud. But he doesn’t, holding his tongue so he doesn’t pour poison over this soft, idyllic evening where Steve’s drenched in sunlight and Bucky’s lost the tension in his bones and they’re a family of two men and a cat.When that day comes, when Bucky’s hair is grey and his bones are creaking and Steve’s still golden and young, they’ll talk about it. But that’s not today.“I love you,” he says.-A soft epilogue.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: the hero's shoulders [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719319
Comments: 92
Kudos: 484





	the gentleness that comes not from the absence of violence (but despite the abundance of it)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [the gentleness that comes not from the absence of violence (but despite the abundance of it)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29586084) by [WTF Bucky Bottom 2021 (WTF_Bucky_Bottom_2021)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Bucky_Bottom_2021/pseuds/WTF%20Bucky%20Bottom%202021)



> This is weird gratuitous porn and little else; gotta remember our roots!
> 
> And guys, listen—I absolutely adore you. When I started posting cgtbtkm, I didn’t know it would spawn two series and 18 fucking fics (literally). But more importantly, I didn’t expect the _reactions_ I’d get. You’ve been supportive beyond words, and I am, ironically, running out of words to actually express how much that means to be. Thank you so damn much!
> 
> 'Soft epilogue' is a reference to —[to this amazing stucky poem](https://cardiamachina.co.vu/post/187132533998/love-time-stops-doesnt-it-are-we-not) by Nikka Ursula.
> 
> Artwork by my favorite cat-potato—[kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com/) <3
> 
> Fic title - and series title - from Siken's "Snow and Dirty Rain."
> 
> _We have not touched the stars,  
>  nor are we forgiven, which brings us back  
> to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes,  
> not from the absence of violence, but despite  
> the abundance of it._

* * *

* * *

It’s a little past noon when Steve comes home. Bucky’s been jittery since morning, ears perked for the sounds of Steve’s bike or the front door opening. He tries to act like the responsible adult he is and do something, _anything_ productive, but after burning two pancakes and putting his phone in the refrigerator instead of the butter, he just retires to the couch with a bowl of cereal and the firm resolve to watch something mindless so he’ll be less of a war bride by the time Steve returns.

What’s ridiculous is that Steve isn’t even on a combat mission. He doesn’t do that anymore, neither of them does. Nat has officially taken over as the head of the Avengers, finally, and Sam’s a stellar Captain America. They’ve got things well under control. Steve takes on remote command now and then, when he’s not trotting around the globe with Bucky, the two of them alternating between actual vacation and humanitarian work. This is just that; Steve’s cozily settled in the Avengers Compound, bossing people around to his heart’s content. If Bucky wanted, he could have gone too, but someone’s got to stay home and take care of Alpine, and it just so happens that Bucky’s the more responsible parent.

Even as his mind happily rationalizes the last two days, a part of it is roiling with worry.

It’s separation anxiety, probably. He hasn’t spent more than a few hours away from Steve since the Snap was reversed. That’s probably not healthy, but whenever either of them brings it up, the other’s quick to reassure that they’re owed some time glued together after everything the world has done to separate them, and they capitulate with ill-concealed relief.

Fuck but they need therapy. Soon. Once the world is a little less fucked from half its population returning as abruptly as they vanished.

Bucky damn near jumps out of his skin when the door opens. He doesn’t even try to play it cool, knocking the remote to the floor as he damn near teleports to the foyer.

He catches a glimpse of Steve’s wide blue eyes before Bucky barrels into him.

Steve’s strong and sturdy and Bucky’s violent tackle doesn’t even make the fucker sway on his feet. It’s unfairly hot, gets Bucky weak at the knees even now, though heaven knows he, more than anyone else, should be used to Steve’s monstrous strength. He throws his legs around Steve’s waist, clambering him frantically, and it’s awkward for a moment before a sole arm rises to catch him, wrapping tight around Bucky’s back, and then it’s just right, the two of them pressed flush to each other.

Bucky buries his face in Steve’s sunshine hair and just breathes.

“Hey,” Steve ventures after a long pause, clearly torn between amusement and affection. “Missed me, pal?”

“Fuck you,” Bucky grumbles into Steve’s hair because maybe he learned to love gently under duress but take away the chance of immediate death and he loses any and all grace in his affection. Steve, though, is used to it, to the point that Bucky’s bitchiness just makes him coo and hoist him higher, hold him tighter.

Bucky’s whole spine turns liquid. He wants to melt and seep into Steve’s skin, make a home in the spaces between his cells.

Steve casually carries Bucky inside and kicks the door closed behind him, the damn show-off. Bucky briefly considers climbing down and making Steve’s life easier, but when he loosens his grip, Steve tightens his, and that’s that.

Bucky grumbles when he’s deposited on the kitchen table like a grocery bag, but Steve kisses the noise out of his mouth and licks in to take its place, and he runs out of complaints in an incandescent instant.

It’s a good welcome-home kiss, the right amount of sweetness and heat. A knot of tension Bucky wasn’t even aware of dissipates into nothing, leaving him feeling a good deal freer, lighter. And he doesn’t miss how Steve relaxes too, some of the stiffness leaving his body, mouth curving against Bucky’s without breaking the kiss. Bucky runs his fingers through Steve’s hair, messing it up, and takes his face in his hands, gleefully rubbing his beard. It wasn’t there when Bucky was un-Snapped, and it wasn’t important to bring it up then. Even now, Bucky hasn’t told Steve how delighted he is by the bristly fuzz on his face, but he’s got a feeling Steve knows by how Bucky goes wild when it scrapes his jaw and thighs.

“I missed you,” Steve says, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against Bucky’s. “Hill kept laughing at me.”

“Yeah? How obvious were you?”

“Very.”

Bucky preens, but stronger than his smug pride is the sharp relief at not being the only one made a mess by the separation.

There’s a high-pitched warning yowl before a large white blur launches itself at Steve. Thankfully, they’ve both got extensive practice handling Alpine without hurting her or getting torn up by her claws, but Steve turning his attention towards their little feline terror does mean that he’s no longer looming like a sexy giant between Bucky’s legs.

He pouts for a bit, but Steve’s too busy trying to kiss their cat’s face without losing an eye for his trouble, so Bucky stops holding the pout and hops off the table, nimbly inserting himself into the little family reunion.

“I missed you too, baby girl,” Steve croons and seeing him like this, Bucky’s half tempted to imagine him with a baby, a father and family guy, but then he remembers the one time a fan gave Steve his baby to hold while he fished out his phone; the expression on Steve’s face, in that instant of the father’s inattention, was one of pure, unmitigated horror.

Bucky burst out laughing and got railed against a shower stall for it, Steve mean and distant the way he was those days. It’s a fond memory all the same, one of their more uncomplicated unions from those years.

-

“What was the mission? It seemed serious.”

It’s evening, the sun sending a golden glow through the windows. Steve has showered and changed into loose sweats and is lounging around shirtless like he was sent by Zeus himself to punish Bucky. Bucky consents enthusiastically, the way he always does.

“Bioweapons lab,” Steve says, and there’s something in his tone that Bucky can’t really place. “One of those that sprang up during the Decimation. It somehow escaped Nat’s network, which is the impressive part.”

“She only pretends to know everything,” Bucky says, repeating words she said to him a lifetime ago, smiling faintly at the memory. “She still going steady with Okoye?”

“You could ask her yourself,” Steve points out, amused. “You text for hours a day.”

“I did. She sent me a knife emoji. And if I push, she’ll come for me with an actual knife.”

“I’ll protect you.”

“My big, strong man,” Bucky says, only half sarcastic. “She’s punishing me, I know it.”

“What for?”

“You. Us. All the shit we pulled behind her back.”

Steve turns a skeptical frown on him, and Bucky tries not to be offended. It’s not like Steve doesn’t know that Natasha marries respect for privacy with a compulsive need for information in some strange, complicated way that doesn’t make sense to anyone but her and maybe Clint.

“She is,” Bucky insists.

“Well, she’s not punishing me for it, so maybe you just did something else.” Before Bucky can counter that grievous accusation, Steve adds, “And they are. Don’t tell her I told you.”

“Sure,” Bucky lies.

Steve shakes his head, resigned. It’s like they’re married already.

They lapse into comfortable silence. Steve is stretched out on the couch that is, in fact, big enough to contain his impossible bulk but still somehow manages to make it seem inadequate. He has a way of swallowing the space around him, sucking in the air and light. Bucky can sympathize, all too familiar with the overwhelming heat of that body, stripping him to his bare essentials and laying it all in Steve’s greedy hands. There are worse ways to live and worse ways to die, and Bucky’s doing a little of both, each and every day.

Bucky’s curled up in the armchair, Alpine squeezed into the space between his side and the chair. It’s the perfect vantage point for Steve-watching.

He looks tired, the space between his brows perpetually burrowed. Even in sleep—Bucky has checked. But he doesn’t look as tired as he did a year ago, fresh from battle and broken in ways Bucky was shocked to find himself unfamiliar with. It’s progress.

He also looks as young as the day Bucky met him, while Bucky—who lost a whole five years of his life, five years that Steve _lived_ —has laugh lines around his mouth and a grey hair or ten. He’s nowhere near death, but even with the lost years, he’s closer to forty than thirty, and he has the feeling that in maybe three more decades, Steve will look like his son and not his lover.

It's not the first time he’s wondered about this. He’s equally certain that the same has occurred to Steve. But they’ve spent so long apart that the ravenous need to be together and stable took over everything else, the future a distant specter in a past trying to tear them down.

It doesn’t feel so distant now.

Bucky almost speaks, voicing it out loud. But he doesn’t, holding his tongue so he doesn’t pour poison over this soft, idyllic evening where Steve’s drenched in sunlight and Bucky’s lost the tension in his bones and they’re a family of two men and a cat.

When that day comes, when Bucky’s hair is grey and his bones are creaking and Steve’s still golden and young, they’ll talk about it. But that’s not today.

“I love you,” he says.

Steve starts, body jolting before it settles back down. He turns his head towards Bucky and grins, bright and blinding. Even now, it hurts to look at him sometimes, the beauty of him burning Bucky’s eyes. He’ll burn though. He’ll welcome the fire with arms wide open.

“Love you too, Buck.”

Steve has this way of shaping those words with awe tinging his voice and hearts in his eye. Bucky doesn’t understand him, but _god_ , he loves it, as fiercely as he loves the easy way Steve says the same words without thinking, half asleep or lost in thought, tongue forming the sounds as if it’s known them since the dawn of time.

-

Bucky’s woken with a wet, hot mouth on his throat and a hand groping his chest. He shudders awake, gasping, hands flying up to clutch at what turns out to be part of the mountain that makes up Steve’s shoulders.

“Wh-what, fuck, _Steve_.”

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” says the asshole he loves. “Gotta go to the compound for a bit. Be back in an hour.”

“What? Why?”

Bucky can’t help the mournful note in his voice because Steve got back less than twenty-four hours ago, and now he’s leaving again. He clings to Steve shamelessly and is only a little mollified by the sweet little kisses peppered all over his face.

“I have to get something from there,” Steve concedes when Bucky shows no sign of letting him go. “It’s a gift for you.”

“A gift for me from the compound? The fuck?”

“Language, sweetheart,” Steve says, just to make Bucky growl at him, and then he kisses him smack on the mouth, briefly halting Bucky’s complaints. “Trust me, Buck. You’ll like it.”

It’s the tone that shuts Bucky up, low and deep with a dark promise dripping from the words.

He nods, wide-eyed, and Steve gives him a toothy grin before pulling away, vanishing out the door with a spring in his steps. On the bed, Alpine shifts, making herself comfortable in Steve’s warm spot. Bucky stares at the doorway for another second before deeming it all Future Bucky’s problem and scooting towards Alpine for a good snuggle.

-

Steve’s in the kitchen when Bucky wakes, and he has a moment of soul-deep terror before he realizes Steve’s only making coffee and not breakfast. In fact, there’s an appealing brown bag on the table.

“Bagels,” Steve says without turning around, “from that place you like by the compound.”

“You’re forgiven,” Bucky answers instantly.

Steve’s back shakes with quiet laughter.

“Thank you, your highness.”

With great self-restraint and no small amount of regret, Bucky fucks off to brush and shit and retrieve his humanity. Steve’s seated on the table when he returns, but he hasn’t opened the bag, sipping at the disgusting swivel he calls coffee. He hasn’t made any for Bucky, thank god.

He's halfway through stuffing a whole damn bagel into his mouth when he remembers. He pauses to chew and swallow before asking because he’s a semi-civilized human being, never mind that expression on Steve’s face.

“What’s this gift business?”

Steve’s smile widens, which would be cute except for the sudden sharpening of his eyes.

“It’s a surprise,” he says. “You know, Wanda found some interesting things yesterday.”

Bucky blinks at the non-sequitur but shrugs and goes with it because Steve will tell him when he wants to and judging by the look on his face, Bucky will enjoy it when he does.

“She was on the mission?”

Steve nods.

“Just her and Pietro. Nat is trying to send them out alone more. She’s getting better. Wanda, I mean. Finding all sorts of ways to use her powers. We’re lucky she’s one of the good guys.”

“Yeah, I hear it wasn’t much fun being on the other side.”

“Not at all,” Steve says grimly.

Bucky wasn’t with the Avengers when they first ran into the Maximoff twins, though he was sure there for the party afterward, intending to announce his retirement, knowing the true intensity of Steve’s reaction would be stifled if they were in public. Then Ultron happened, and shit hit the fan, and at the end of it all, Bucky didn’t quite escape Steve’s wrath.

It felt apt, then, to leave with his body bruised from Steve’s fists and cock, ending it the way it began. Even now, all Bucky regrets is driving Steve into that in the first place.

Fingers ghost over the back of his hand, a gentle touch that pulls him out of himself and back into the present. Steve’s smiling at him, faint and knowing. Bucky smiles back, and it doesn’t waver.

“So,” Bucky says, pretending his voice is hoarse because he nearly choked on a bagel, “what did she find?”

“Stuff,” Steve says. “Nothing very dangerous, though they were sure trying. I don’t think they were the most competent bunch, chemically at least.”

“Huh, that’s good.”

“Oh, very.” Steve grins with unwarranted enthusiasm. “They had a formula that can turn every hair on your body white. _Every_ hair.”

Bucky blinks.

“Just that? No aging or anything?”

“Nope.”

“That’s…useless.”

“Exactly.”

“Alright, what else did these idiots cook up?”

“Oh, this and that. Something that could kill a very specific species of worms. A tonic to make your nail grow uncontrollably for an hour straight. A surprisingly effective aphrodisiac.”

“Hmm—wait, what? Did you say aphrodisiac?”

“Yeah,” Steve says nonchalantly, finishing off his food and washing it down with a mug of coffee. He gets up to wash the mug, leaving Bucky blinking after him.

“For real?” he asks.

“Mmhm. I’m glad they didn’t try to market it. Maybe it was in the plans, we don’t know. It would have been a menace though.”

“I bet,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “What even.”

“Marginally more useful,” Steve says without turning around, “than anything else they had.”

There’s something about his tone that makes Bucky sit a little straighter and swallow through a suddenly dry throat.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Fascinating stuff.”

That’s all Steve says on the matter. Bucky doesn’t probe further and quietly finishes his bagel.

-

Bucky is technically an employee of Stark industries because Pepper’s way of working through her grief was to roll up her sleeves and set about fixing the world that her partner saved. She has money and political sway and a spine of steel, all of which gets them places faster and with considerably more legitimacy than even the Avenger label can. Steve works as more of a freelancer, training baby Avengers and coordinating missions in between running around the world with Bucky.

They did take a break from everything at first, but neither of them could really sit back and watch the world struggle to piece itself back together. But this is good. Peaceful. They can work from home half the time, which is nice, even if it means that sometimes, Bucky will be diligently scrolling through a new batch of documents and Steve will be hovering behind him with evil intent.

Bucky soldiers on for a good thirty minutes before the itch under his skin starts to drive him mad. He shuts his laptop and whirls his chair around, glaring at Steve.

“What?” he snaps.

Steve blinks innocently at him.

“You’ve been working since morning, sweetheart,” he says. “Take a break.”

“Steven Grant Rogers, if this is because you want to stick your dick in me, I swear to—”

He’s cut off by the hand in his hair, pulling his head back until his throat is bared in a sharp arch. But it’s the smile on Steve’s face, amused with an edge to it, that makes the rest of Bucky’s tirade die in his throat.

“If I wanted to stick my dick in you,” Steve says, slightly mocking, “I wouldn’t exactly be asking you for permission, would I be, Buck?”

Bucky says nothing. His tongue’s leaden, throat dry, heart pounding in his teeth.

Steve gives him a good shake.

“ _Would I_?”

“No,” Bucky gasps, “No, sir, you wouldn’t.”

Steve lets him go. Bucky slumps in his chair, panting, and bites back a whimper when the hand that was in his hair runs deceptively gentle knuckles down the side of his face.

“And why is that, honey?”

Steve likes asking this, seems addicted to the many variations of that question and their answers. Bucky understands and god knows he’s no better, but it’s so hard, sometimes, to force the words out of his willing mouth.

Steve helps, digging his fingers into Bucky’s jaw, a silent and painful demand.

“Because I’m yours,” Bucky manages to say, face burning around the words.

Steve smiles, approving, and lets go, and just like that, he’s all sweet again, grinning brightly at Bucky without a trace of malice in his face. But when he speaks, the words are a command.

“Stay here. I’ll get you something to drink.”

Bucky doesn’t catch his breath in time to agree or disagree before Steve bounds out of the room, which is just as well because Bucky would just have begged him to forget the drink and give Bucky something else to slake his thirst. He looks judgmentally at his own lap, his boxers not really hiding the half-chub he’s sporting. Fuck, he’s easy. Just for Steve though. It’s been only Steve for so long now, and Bucky wants to live the rest of his life the same way.

Steve takes his sweet time returning even though it shouldn’t take long for him to pour milk or juice into a damn glass. Bucky’s tempted to go after him and maybe lure him towards the kitchen counter, but Steve told him to stay and Bucky stays.

When Steve does come back, he’s got a glass full of orange juice in one hand and his mouth is tilted up in one corner.

“Good boy,” he praises casually. Bucky half expects Steve to reach out and ruffle his hair, but he doesn’t, just hands Bucky the glass and pecks him on the cheek. “That’s your gift, you know.”

Bucky frowns. He sniffs the juice, but it’s just the familiar, citrusy smell.

“Orange juice?” he asks skeptically, more than a little unimpressed.

Steve’s smile grows more crooked.

“Drink it,” he says. “All of it.”

Bucky obediently takes a sip.

It’s subtle, more an aftertaste than anything else, like the cinnamon in the apple cinnamon tea Bucky tried once and then never again. Except instead of fruit followed by spice, this is the familiar taste of juice leaving him a strange chemical tang on his tongue. If literally anyone else gave this to Bucky, he’d throw it away and pull a knife on the fucker, but it’s Steve, and it’s not like he’s going to poison Bucky.

That doesn’t mean his intentions are always harmless or honorable. They rarely are.

“What’s in this?” Bucky asks.

“Your gift,” Steve says, and Bucky’s not surprised that he’s not getting a straight answer but exasperation is another thing entirely.

“Yeah, no shit. What is my gift?”

“It’s a surprise. And don’t give me that look, sweetheart,” Steve warns, “I gave you very simple instructions. Drink.”

Bucky swallows.

He drinks.

It’s not so bad when he drinks the whole thing in one, long gulp. He just tastes orange until the glass is empty. The chemical aftertaste isn’t pleasant, but when he makes a face, Steve kisses him and licks into his mouth, and they kiss until all Bucky tastes is warm flesh.

Steve pulls away, eyes dark, and Bucky’s stopped from chasing after him with a hand on his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs against Steve’s palm when he swallows, but Steve just grins and keeps him in place. He doesn’t even squeeze tighter, make Bucky fight for air, and Bucky’s not beyond pouting.

“Cute,” Steve says, letting go entirely. “Do your work.”

“What? No!”

“Yes,” Steve counters firmly, still smiling. “You seemed pretty pissed to be distracted earlier. Changed your mind?”

“That was before you force-fed me an aphrodisiac with dubious origins.”

Steve doesn’t even seem surprised. Sometimes, life would be infinitely easier if this man underestimated Bucky.

“It’s safe,” Steve says. “Bruce tested it exhaustively.”

“You left so early in the morning to get me experimental roofies? Seriously?”

“Nine is not early by anyone’s logic except yours, honey. And it’s not roofies. Do your work.”

“Are you fucking—”

Steve flicks him on the mouth. Bucky, who was hoping for at least a slap, glares at him. Steve rolls his eyes heavenward as if Bucky’s the one being an infuriating fucknut.

Bucky grumbles when Steve turns his chair around. He even opens Bucky’s laptop for him, the domineering asshole. Bucky still melts when lips press to his neck and drag up his throat, nipping gently at his ear.

“Come find me,” Steve says, “when you need it.”

He actually leaves, and Bucky gapes after him, but he knows better than to get up and follow. Steve can and will tie him up somewhere and tease him for hours with no release if Bucky acts out. He sure has before. And it’s not like that doesn’t have its own appeal, but it’s not what Bucky needs now.

He'll behave. And he’ll wait for whatever Steve gave him to kick in.

-

Half an hour passes. Bucky covers barely ten pages in that time, distracted not by any sort of physical effects but by his dirty, dirty mind. He would think Steve just gave him a placebo because some weird chemical is a stretch even for the two of them, but then, the orange juice really didn’t taste normal. Bucky’s confused. He’s hot for it, of course he’s hot for it, but it’s just the usual way he gets when Steve winds him up and puts him aside like an easily bored child’s toy.

The thought brings vivid images of Steve toying with him, memories blending with fantasies, and Bucky puts the screen to sleep and damn near stalks to the bed.

He collapses on the covers and, feeling sufficiently dramatic after a good five minutes spent staring at the ceiling, worms under them and transforms gleefully into a burrito. Alpine, who’s got a sixth sense for this sort of thing, barrels in from whatever dimension she lurks in and curls up against the curve of his body, purring mightily.

Steve’s nowhere to be seen.

 _Serves him right_ , Bucky thinks spitefully. _No cuddles for assholes_.

Sleep drags at his lids, the kind of lazy drowsiness that can be shaken off but is too seductive to truly reject. Bucky’s cock does make a pitiful case for staying up and slithering into Steve’s lap, wherever he is, but Bucky ignores it soundly and fucks off to sleep.

-

He wakes up whimpering, body hot and electric, cock a raging pulse of heat between his legs, and Bucky realizes it’s wet under him, the sheets slick with precome, and he’s moving, clumsy and desperate, grinding down into the mattress and back against—

“Oh, hello,” Steve says from behind Bucky, too cheerful for a man who’s got two fingers buried in someone’s asshole, in _Bucky’s_ asshole—

“ _Nngh_ —wha—what, _what_ are you—”

“You were begging,” Steve says, and he sounds so sweet that Bucky distrusts him immediately. “Looked so pathetic. Figured I’d give you what you need. Because I’m nice like that, aren’t I, Buck?”

“N-no, you’re not, fuck, _fuck_ , don’t—”

“Don’t stop?” Steve suggests. “I won’t, I promise.”

“ _No_.”

Steve twists his fingers, buries them right to the last knuckle, sliding slickly along Bucky’s prostate and digging into his soft insides, and the protests die in his throat, a shattered cry escaping. He pushes back against them, and he doesn’t mean to, but he’s burning, gut clenching, his whole body drenched in sweat like Steve has fucked him in a sauna. Bucky knows arousal, knows his body’s reaction, and this isn’t—

“Oh god,” he gasps, helpless not to move against Steve’s fingers even as realization hits. “The—the drug, it—you—”

“Told you it was fascinating,” Steve says. “Takes a while to kick in. Had a nice nap? You sounded like you had good dreams.”

Bucky can’t remember a single damn dream he had, but his body tells a different tale. He’s on his belly, naked and desperate, the covers nowhere to be found, and Alpine—

“Where’s the cat?” he manages to ask. “You’re not fucking me in front of her, asshole, her _innocence_ —”

Steve smacks his ass, and Bucky falls quiet with an embarrassing sound, cock gushing against the bed.

“She’s outside,” Steve tells him calmly. “You know she gives me performance anxiety.”

“Yeah, because that’s the concern here.”

Steve adds a third finger, sudden and not as wet as the others, and Bucky’s body takes the stretch, it takes everything Steve gives him, but it burns, the pain white-hot. Bucky shouts, slamming a fist into his pillow, and Steve just laughs, twisting his fingers inside Bucky, stretching him without mercy, and it’s not _enough_. Bucky burns hotter with each passing second, hips thrusting frantically, chasing a release that needs more than the cotton sheets under his cock and three lazily moving fingers.

“More,” he gasps, straining to look over his head at Steve. He’s there, kneeling beside Bucky’s hips, meeting his stare with dark, hungry eyes. Bucky shudders, and the plea slips out of him without though. “Please, Steve, more, gimme, I need—”

“I’ll give you what you need,” Steve says, smiling in a way that’s not reassuring at all. “You just lie there and take it, sweetheart.”

Bucky would try to put up a fight just to be a contrary bastard, mostly because he knows Steve can pin him down with one arm and make him pay for it with blood and tears and _screams_ , but he doesn’t do even that, too desperate to fight, bucking wildly against Steve’s fingers with what little leverage he has. He tries to get his arms under him, but Steve reaches out to grab him by the nape, his other hand screwing deep into Bucky at a new, maddening angle, and Bucky goes weak down to his bones.

“Fuck, look at you,” Steve says, awed but with something sharper lying under it. “Know how long it usually takes me to work you up like this?”

Bucky shudders, clawing at the sheets, metal fingers tearing the fabric.

“Please,” he begs, sucking in rough, heaving breaths. “In me, come on, Steve.”

“I’m in you. Gonna have to be more specific.”

“Fuck me,” Bucky grits out, the tension more from the throbbing heat in his belly than any sort of shame. “Put your cock in me, fuck me, _c’mon_.”

Steve laughs again, but there’s a strain in the sound, his precious control fraying. He still takes his goddamn time, fucking his fingers in and out of Bucky, each stroke sending fire licking up his spine. Bucky begs again, voice breaking on the sounds, and Steve finally, finally moves.

His legs are forced wider, thighs bruising under Steve’s tight grip. Steve’s rough with him, nails scraping skin and wet fingers pinching at the flesh. They’re little hurts, hot and electric, winding Bucky tighter and tighter until he’s squirming aimlessly. He cries out, harsh and grateful, when Steve takes his hips and drags him on to Steve’s folded thighs. It’s the kind of position that leaves Bucky doing most of the work. He’s got precious little leverage, knees bent awkwardly and torso flat on the floor, but he’s flush with need and frantic, barely waiting for Steve to guide his cock to Bucky’s hole before shoving back and swallowing it deep.

It breaches him savagely, a thick, searing heat. Bucky screams, mad with it. The fire in his veins is hotter and sharper than what he’s used to, like his need has grown teeth.

He sobs when Steve bottoms out, but he can’t lie and bask in the fullness, not when he’s burning up with the need to move. He rolls his hips, graceless and frenzied, sinking his teeth into the pillow when Steve’s cock throbs and shifts inside him, carving Bucky open. It’s too much, but he needs to move; whatever the aphrodisiac is doing, it’s not turning him into a mindless animal like he half thought, half _hoped_ , but the pulsing demand in his gut, his cock, in his ass is intense enough that he might as well be a slave to lust. And it’s not different, not really, from what Steve does to him with little more than a hard look and a rough touch, but now his _body_ is lost to the same compulsion, and Bucky’s drowning in want.

He's begging, he realizes, pitiful pleas spilling from his lips as he works himself into a mad frenzy, hips jerking and ass clenching, chasing climax with single-minded intensity. Steve’s silent, but his hands are on Bucky, gripping his ass and bruising his hips, fleeting, proprietary touches that make his cock throb where it’s trapped between the bed and Bucky’s writhing body.

He’s so close, but it’s not _enough_.

“Steve,” Bucky whines, driving himself back until Steve’s balls-deep in him, the sheer girth of him maddening. “To-touch me.”

“Hmm, should I? Got half a mind to make you come like this.”

Bucky shakes his head, letting out a sound better suited to some wounded animal.

“Can’t, please, I just—just a little, please, sir, just touch me.”

“Aw, Buck, you know I can’t say no when you beg so pretty.”

That’s a lie, Steve has made him _cry_ begging, but then Steve’s moving, shoving Bucky off his cock and pulling his hips up, and at first, Bucky’s reeling too much from the emptiness to speak, and then Steve’s fucking into him and fisting his cock and all that comes out is a hushed litany of Steve’s name, every sound stupidly grateful. Steve’s fire inside him and around him, hands and cock scorching Bucky to the bone, and he burns with sobs of relief, writhing on Steve’s cock and down into his fist until the pulsing pleasure inside Bucky crests and breaks and sweeps him up.

Steve fucks him through it, grunting when Bucky tightens around him and then screwing in harder, plunging deep, taking and taking, leaving Bucky shuddering and screaming in the grip of blinding sensation.

Then it’s over, and there’s no relief to it, just another pulse of telltale heat sinking its fangs into his gut.

“Steve!”

Steve’s hand, firm around Bucky’s still-hard dick, gives a good squeeze. It’s too much, the sticky warmth of his own come and Steve’s hand and the pressure—

“Don’t,” Bucky chokes out, tearing at the sheets and aching for Steve’s skin to sink his nails into. “I can’t, come on, _stop_ —”

Steve doesn’t stop, he never does, using Bucky as he wants, whenever and however, and Bucky’s never wanted to stop it, not when he should have and certainly not now, but Christ, _fuck_ , he’s going to go mad, going to die like this, split in half and spilling over with heat.

Steve shudders, coming inside Bucky with a groan and a bitten-off rasp of Bucky’s name, the syllables lashing at his gut. It drenches him and spills right out, and he’s empty and aching just like that, lower half collapsing to the bed without Steve’s cock and hands to hold it up.

He lies there, stunned and panting, thrumming helplessly from the roiling want inside of him. It spreads red-hot tendrils through his veins, boiling him alive, and he doesn’t know what to do, tender all over and desperate for more at the same time. He begs for Steve, sobbing his name, and Steve comes to him, he always does, turning Bucky over and running big, soothing hands over his shoulders and down his chest. They come to rest on Bucky’s thighs, framing the hard jut of his cock.

Bucky whimpers.

“It also acts like suped-up Viagra,” Steve says conversationally, his dark eyes and flushed cheeks the only sign that he was screwing Bucky through the mattress a minute ago. “How’s it feel, honey?”

“ _Burns_ ,” Bucky hisses and has the satisfaction of seeing concern flash across that infuriatingly smug face.

His body chooses then to arch with a gut-clenching shudder. His cock keeps dripping, and Bucky has a hysterical moment of worrying whether he can get dehydrated from coming too much, but it’s only a fleeting insanity and he’s left wondering how to get Steve back in him without begging for it.

Steve wraps his hand around Bucky’s cock and the words die in his chest.

Bucky whines as he’s stroked, Steve’s touch too much and not enough, and his ass is clenching, leaking come and thirsty for more, his need pulsing around his wet, heated walls.

He spreads his legs, one nudging Steve’s bare thigh, as clear a signal as he can make it. Steve’s no fool but he sure acts the part when he wants to, idly pumping Bucky’s dick as if he’s immune to the invitation between his legs. Bucky growls and reaches down to shove his fingers into himself. The metal’s cold and hard and nowhere near enough, not even when he crams in three, keening around the biting chill.

“Aw, Buck,” Steve says, faux sympathy warming his voice. “You want something, all you gotta do is ask. Ain’t that hard. I know how you get.”

He’s not wrong, Bucky’s _easy_ , but he just bares his teeth at Steve in a challenge of his own. It’s not that his pride has suddenly surged to life, just that he wants Steve to lose control and fuck him till he breaks and fuck him some more, and then, maybe, the fire burning in him will be sated, but god, the worst of it—the best of it—is that Bucky doesn’t need weird drugs to burn and drown and soar for Steve, hasn’t since the moment they touched.

He rides his own fingers, the motions clumsy and jerky, his body wrung out from the climax and sensitive from taking Steve’s monster dick. Steve strokes him to the same rhythm, the bastard smirking down at Bucky, smug from his own orgasm and the sheer, visceral pleasure he always takes in watching Bucky unravel. And Bucky plays into it every damn time, he can’t _help_ it, and he’ll die if he stops moving, even if the merciless pressure of Steve’s hand and the awkward curl of his own fingers feel like a little like dying anyway.

It hurts when he comes, cock rubbed raw but eager, desperate, wetting Steve’s fingers and finally softening in his grip. Bucky pulls his fingers out of himself, cursing through gritted teeth, and pants through the aftershocks. That same feeling is there, of something that’s less relief than slightly fading pressure, and the weirdest part is that he’s exhausted, wrung dry and shaking even as the hunger throbs in the pit of his belly.

Steve’s smiling like he knows, like Bucky’s every thought is stamped across his face in a language only Steve knows. Smug is a frustratingly good look on him, and the combination of the devil’s glint in his sweet blue eyes and the pink slash of his mouth amidst the dark fuzz of his beard makes Bucky weak all over.

He reaches up, mouth puckering in pouty demand, and Steve scoops him up, manhandling Bucky’s spent body into his lap so he can kiss him silly. Bucky kisses him with all he’s got, teeth and tongue and wet, filthy sounds. Steve gives it back as good as he gets, and it twists him up like nothing else, being held against Steve’s strong body as he’s devoured.

Bucky summons what little energy he has to push Steve down on the bed. The solid expanse of his chest is hard and unyielding for a moment, but then it falls away, Steve sinking back-first into the mattress, indulgent from the quirk of his brow to the insolent sprawl of his limbs.

But Christ, he’s pretty, more god than man, and Bucky can live a hundred lifetimes and not get used to the damning beauty of him. He remembers, abruptly, what Steve told him about his trips to the past, the timelines he may have created. There’s a world where Peggy Carter will find Steve in the ice, another where Bucky will break his heart and Steve will remember the doppelganger who told him it’s worth it. He wonders about those worlds and the ones he doesn’t know of; will the Buckys there find their Steves, will they stay, will they be happier, sadder, will it _matter_ —

“I love you,” Bucky whispers, choking on the strange wetness of unshed tears. “I’ll always love you.”

Steve looks stunned, but it softens impossibly in an instant, warmth radiating off his smile and the gentle touch of his fingers to Bucky’s cheeks.

“Love you too, sweetheart,” he says. “You’re my guy.”

Steve draws him down, and Bucky collapses on him, plastering himself on Steve, cradled in his arms. They kiss, and it’s sweeter, Steve’s lips and tongue chasing the burn of tears from Bucky’s mouth. It takes effort to tear away from the seductive softness of Steve’s kisses, but Bucky does it, biting at his jaw and down the curve of his throat, sucking marks that Steve’s skin will swallow all too soon. Steve will never wear their need on his skin the way Bucky does, but that’s fine. Bucky’s glad to be the more mortal among the two of them.

And he doesn’t need bruises and blood to make Steve his, not when the touch of his mouth is all it takes to make Steve twitch and drench his tongue in slick.

Bucky’s sweetly mean to him, licking kitten-like along the length of his cock, nuzzling into the musky thatch of hair at the base, rubbing his face against his soft inner thighs, even mouthing at the head, tongue sliding under the foreskin. His mouth floods with Steve’s taste, sharp and beloved, but he’s teasing, they both know he’s teasing, withholding the wet heat of his mouth and the tight clench of his throat even though he knows Steve wants it. Steve tries to stay calm, muscles tight with the effort it takes not to fuck up into Bucky’s mouth, mouth shaping hoarse cries of Bucky’s name rather than hard demands.

Bucky looks up at him from under his lashes, lips stretched lazily around the head of Steve’s cock, and he knows the sight he makes, knows what it does to Steve to see him wear innocence and depravity on either side of his hollowed cheeks.

Fingers slide into his hair, gripping tight and dirty, and Bucky has triumph tucked under his teeth when Steve pushes him _down_.

He takes it, and it’s not graceful, spit wetting his chin and throat burning as he chokes, but he still fucking takes it, head spinning from the heat and the taste and the scent, from the ache in his scalp and the pressure in his throat. He goes limp, opens wide, and lets Steve put him to good use in the way of one who’s familiar with all Bucky’s eager to give and just as ravenous to take it all.

Steve’s the only one who can give this to him, and god, he’s got strange drugs in his blood to prove as much. It’s a slow, simmering ache in his veins even now, not unlike the heat of alcohol but different in some way he can’t quantify. He doesn’t care to because it doesn’t matter, nothing matters except Steve fucking into his mouth and sliding down his throat, taking Bucky’s air, his life, all he’s got. His cheeks burn, tears cool as they trickle down heated flesh, and his lips feel raw and swollen. He must make a messy sight, choking on cock and showing it, but Steve likes it, a steady stream of filth flowing from his lips, some words caressing the edges of Bucky’s name.

“Made for this,” he says, voice low and rough from strained pleasure, “Don’t even need the drugs, do you, Buck? All I gotta do is put you in your place and you’re then sweetest fucking dream.”

Bucky can barely moan around the cock rammed down his throat, but his body pulses in reaction, heat and want rushing through his veins, his bones. It doesn’t matter that his cock’s too spent to harden, that he’s aching inside from fingers and cock—he wants, more and more, everything Steve will give him, everything Bucky can take and then some.

The whole of him is an exposed nerve, throbbing electric.

He sucks Steve down, sloppy-wet, lets him have his tongue and his mouth, losing himself gladly in the rush of it. His jaw aches and his lungs burn, straining for air, for release and relief, and Bucky welcomes it all, the wetness of tears on his sticky cheeks and the numbness of his swollen lips. He can live and die like this, nothing but a wet, hungry mouth. Steve’s fingers in his hair and the weight of his cock on his tongue tether Bucky to his flesh.

Steve doesn’t give him a warning, but his fist tightens painfully a second before he spills down Bucky’s throat.

Bucky gags, sputters, and at this angle, he can’t not make a mess, come dribbling down Steve’s cock and his own slack lips, wetting his chin and Steve’s skin. He still swallows some of it, strangely greedy, and licks at his lips. He’s heaving for breath when he surfaces, tonguing the hollow space that Steve filled.

Steve’s got an arm over his eyes and a torso gleaming with sweat, the vast expanse of his chest moving with deep, unsteady breaths. He lifts his arm an inch and meets Bucky’s eyes, pinning him with a look of sated heat.

Steve sits up suddenly, and Bucky sprawls backward in sheer surprise, catching himself awkwardly on his left arm. It doesn’t even matter because Steve pushes him down anyway, smiling deceptively sweetly when Bucky collapses with a soft, wounded noise.

“It’s not enough, is it?”

Steve doesn’t wait for a response, kissing Bucky deep and dirty, licking in like he wants to eat the taste of himself out of Bucky’s mouth. And Bucky melts into it, lips parting for Steve’s tongue and legs spreading for the searing bulk of his body. Steve’s not hard, but he’s not quite soft either, and one of these days, his superdick will actually kill Bucky and Bucky will die thanking him for it.

He can feel it grow hard against his thigh as they kiss and rut, filling up for another round even as Bucky’s dick lies soft and aching between his legs.

They break away panting, Bucky’s fingers dug like claws into Steve’s arms.

“You got one more in you, don’t you, Buck?”

The question’s rhetorical.

His body opens so easily for Steve, wet and open from earlier, and all Bucky can do is lie there and keen as he’s taken in one, rough thrust, Steve sliding home with a guttural cry.

And Bucky’s cock is too spent to fill up again, drug or no drug, but pleasure still shudders along the length of him, sparking in his blood and shuddering down the arched length of his back. Steve hikes Bucky’s hips up, forcing his legs around his waist, and the new angle’s brutal, every rough thrust sliding along Bucky’s prostate. Steve grunts when Bucky clenches around him, teeth bared, and he must be sensitive too, dick still wet with Bucky’s spit, but it doesn’t make him any kinder and Bucky wouldn’t have him any other way.

“C’mon,” he gasps, twisting a hand in Steve’s hair, yanking at the strands. “That all you fucking got?”

It’s generally a bad idea, challenging Steve, but the results are never not predictable.

Steve gives in with the expression of a man who knows he’s being played but doesn’t give a fuck because he knows he’ll emerge the victor anyway, and Bucky wants to bite the smirk off his mouth, but Steve starts drilling into him like he wants to break Bucky open and leave him bleeding, and it’s all he can do to find the air to scream.

Steve’s a monster above him, gilded in gold and red inside, and he has Bucky shuddering and crying for mercy in seconds. The pleas fall on uncaring ears, and Bucky’s nails tearing bloody trails down Steve’s back only push him harder; it takes so little to make Bucky eat his words. 

“Please, fuck, please,” he begs, writhing under Steve, pushing and struggling against a body that doesn’t budge an inch except to fuck Bucky into the mattress. “Christ, you’re breaking me, please.”

Steve just grins, hardly opening his eyes, the expression strained.

“You can take it,” he says, voice deeper, rougher, sliding under Bucky’s heated skin.

“I _can’t_ —”

But it’s not like Steve cares, not like he’ll stop, not like Bucky will do anything other than sob wretchedly and take it all, legs spread wide and ass clenching tight.

Steve buries his face in the follow of Bucky’s throat, sinking his teeth into the skin, breath falling hot. His weight’s half on Bucky, pinning him as Steve fucks him raw, and Bucky’s burning with a whole other heat, fluid fire drenching him inside and out. He gives up, gives in, keening softly as he goes limp under Steve, weak and easy, just for him, just for Steve.

His throat stings with bruises and his muscles ache, and it’s so good to let go, to stop thinking and just feel, pain and pleasure blending into sheer, overwhelming sensation.

Time turns liquid.

Steve comes with a muffled shout, hips slamming hard against Bucky, spilling hot in him, and it’s not as much as it usually is, but god, he’s still got so much to give and the heat of it makes Bucky clench all over, a pathetic cry tearing free. Steve slips out of him, soft and spent, and his full weight rests on Bucky for a single, suffocating instant before he collapses beside him. One arm and leg remain on him, trapping Bucky close to Steve’s heaving body. Sometimes, it feels like Steve still expects Bucky to scamper out of bed after they’re done fucking.

Thanos didn’t help; Bucky knows Steve dreams of it, Bucky turning to dust in his arms, and Bucky dreams too, but they wake up next to each other, and it’s not a magical solution to minds shaped by years of pain and violence, but it’s something.

Bucky doesn’t have the energy to curl into Steve, but he wants to.

Steve does scoot closer, pressing a clumsy kiss to Bucky’s shoulder before smushing his face into his arm, his nose angled along the white star Steve repainted just a week ago. Bucky’s breath catches, his throat thickening, full of some feeling he can’t name.

Steve spreads his hand over Bucky’s belly, almost as if he’s cradling it.

“Y’kay?” he asks, slurring a little. “S’not too much?”

It takes Bucky a moment to remember the drug and another to pay attention to his overheated, fucked-out body. He’s warm all over, but that’s more from Steve, who tends to leave him feeling like a swamp and a wrung-out towel at the same time. The hot frenzy of earlier seems to have vanished.

“Yeah,” he says. “M’good.”

Steve kind of purrs in answer, pressing closer to Bucky. They’re a mess, coated in sweat and come. Bucky’s aching all over, bone-deep but pleasant, and the thought of getting up is repugnant. Steve seems half asleep, clinging to Bucky like he’s his favorite teddy bear.

In a while, Bucky will pester him to get a towel and clean them up, but for now, this is good. He tilts his head, buries his nose in Steve’s messy hair, and breathes him in.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [collab: voxofthevoid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23361448) by [kocuria-visuals (kocuria)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kocuria/pseuds/kocuria-visuals)




End file.
